a sunday drive
by gothamstreetcat
Summary: A Sunday morning in which Bruce Wayne firsts rests eyes upon, one Selina Kyle.


Bruce rolled the window down on his mother's old car just in time to hear the nice, crisp crinkle of freshly fallen leaves under worn tires. He leaned his head against the door as his mother leaned over him to blow her cigarette smoke out into the city where it dissipated toward the clouds. She pressed a soft kiss on his temple that made him smile.

His father sat ahead in the driver's seat chatting politely with Alfred, but the car belonged to his mother. She had bought it during one of Gotham unbearably and only hot summers, fixing it up using a box of rusty tools and a cigarette between her fingers. It ran for years. Partial to his mother doing all the necessary tune-ups when it needed, and letting money do the rest when she couldn't. Now, the family just took it out once every Sunday morning for an open drive around the city.

There were just enough cars out that they were not entirely stopped, but slowed down just enough to be considered _in traffic._ As the car rolled along, Bruce settled in comfy to his favourite part of the drive. The part just in the heart of Gotham where there was just enough of a crowd of people to observe, but not enough to bother him with all the noise. He could settle down with the window rolled while his mother chain-smoked beside him and he watched the passers-by outside. Joined by the homeless street youth while they played ball just close enough he could see all the action. Wondering to himself why he and his own friends never played like that. It wasn't so much the game that he yearned for, although, he did once admit to his mother once how it might be nice. Instead, it was the way the kids played that he secretly wished for. How they seemed to connect and be bonded with one another. How they appeared so in touch. His schoolmates always discussed how miserable and poor the homeless were, but every Sunday Bruce was able to admire a different view. They belonged where they played. Rather than appearing homeless, they seemed more rich then he could ever be.

Hopping along like they owned the street and the sidewalk. Taking up such a small portion of space but yet somehow making it appear larger than it actually was. Playing, bobbing, and weaving through a somewhat thick crowd with such ease. Happy and laughing, smiles on their faces. Bodies adorned in ragged clothing that confused Bruce, as the kids didn't seem cold.

His father every so often would look up into the rearview mirror at Bruce, who thought he didn't notice. But Bruce could feel when his father's eyes were upon him. Yet, still, he continued to stare out the window at the other children playing as though he couldn't feel a thing. He's father's mouth turned up into a half-smile.

"Hey, mom?" Bruce turned toward his mother who was busy blowing her cigarette out the crack of her own window. "Can I go play with those kids across the street? Perhaps, sometime after school?"

Martha glanced to where he was looking, admiring the tiny glimpse she caught out of the corner of her eye. Bruce's smile. How his eyes were lit with interest watching the kids on the street. Secretly, her heart swelling in her own joy watching her son become enthralled with something socially productive. Over the moon, he wanted to play with the people most others took for granted or ignored.

"They seem interesting," Bruce added, trying to persuade a positive reply. Even knowing how encouraging his mother was toward anything and everything he'd taken curiosity in. Knowing deep down how she could be both thankful when he took note in something, and desperate when he did not.

Martha chuckled, trying to hide her inner elation and keep herself from having a heart attack then and there. "How does next week after school sound?" She almost did her best to avoid Thomas and Alfred's concerning glances from the rearview mirror. However, she simply couldn't help but give a sinister smirk before leaning her head against the glass on her window as Bruce had.

Thomas and she could agree on many things. Often times the idea of public image was not always the case. Years of knowing and loving Thomas was not always enough to open his mind completely and get him to see things from another perspective. He couldn't help himself, it was just who he was. To worry about all the things their rich friends would say to them on Saturdays when they got together. Or at Gala's and parties hosted by Martha herself. What the parents of Bruce's fellow schoolmates might say to them during the next family meeting. Or what the neighbours might think if they ever saw the city youth parading around the lawn of Wayne Manor in their filthy attire and faces. Despite the fact of how they didn't actually have any real neighbours, but being painfully aware of gossip spread. And it failed to be other's opinions that bothered Martha, but rather, their ability to be constantly rude. To never mind their own business and always have a negative opinion they felt the burning desire to express. Martha thought it was great how they all had one, but frankly couldn't find it in herself to give a damn. It was just annoying to experience day by day.

Those kids… those street boys and girls playing outside on the sidewalk like it belonged to them… They were either going to accept Bruce as an equal or judge him for being different. Either way, it would not have mattered to Bruce, and this was something Martha was sure about in her own son.

"Mom!" Bruce exclaimed now, his happiness enough to rouse Thomas and Alfred from the front seat.

"What sweetie?" Martha glanced back over in his direction as he pointed outside the window.

"There's a girl out there, near where those kids are playing."

"Since when are you interested girls Bruce?" His father glanced at his son from the mirror again. Almost joking, almost serious. Half smiling with worried eyes.

"When is he interested in anything?" Martha smiled and swatted the back of his head for teasing Bruce.

"A new development it seems," Alfred mumbled from beside him, chuckling slightly to himself.

Martha leaned in close to her son. She saw two girls playing with the boys, but then she spotted the girl Bruce had to have been speaking about. Somehow looking different from the rest of the kids. An outcast in the outcasts.

She wore a grey hood that covered her hair but it didn't seem to stop the blond curls from blooming in a perfect circle around her face. Martha could see from far away, her quilted leather jacket over a black vest. Her legs showing cold skin under her torn fishnetted jeans.

She was alone, slinking in the daytime, like a cat. Slipping herself in and out of the crowd. Clearly sneaking around by the way she moved. The ways she chose to show her face and the ways she kept it hidden. Her hands moving in such remarkable manors. Appearing to Bruce and Martha as though she was reaching her fingers into the pockets of others and stealing from them. Pickpocketing, for a more precise term. It felt wrong to watch but it was hard to look away. The blonde-haired girl was impressive.

Bruce watched her step around lightly on her feet. When suddenly a couple of the kids started pushing her and he got anxious. Punching her on the shoulder as they ran past. Messing with her, as it seemed. Bruce understood what it felt like to be bullied by your own peer group. Often being sent home as a result. Yet, here this girl in the middle of the daytime and a street full of adults rather than haunted hallways. But she didn't need those around. She didn't allow herself to be bothered as she yelled something to the other children Bruce was unable to make out. Though, he could see the way her lips moved so perfectly. Like a fire ready to blaze, someone not willing to be ground down. She snapped and they backed away. Leaving her fully alone while she herself overtop an empty, overturned milk crate in peace. She cupped her hands together, adorned in fingerless-gloves and blew into them.

Shortly after, she was joined by an even younger girl. Covered in a tattered black and green sweater, faded mary-janes, and the most vibrant red hair that somehow seemed to compliment her pale, ill-looking skin. Somehow, Bruce thought he recognized her from somewhere.

Her hands were down to her sides as she moved like a ghost, her fingers tucked hidden under the sweater sleeves that reached down way past her wrists. Yet, Bruce could see something of a deep red peeking out from beneath the green. She walked over to the blond-haired girl and put out her hand. The child was carrying apples. One for each of them.

"Hey," Martha said, still beside him. "That's Ivy, Alice's daughter."

Yes, Ivy. Bruce remembered. He'd seen her plenty of times when he would accompany his mother to Alice's Flower shop; "Ivy's." There was one time, in particular, Bruce was wandering around the little florist shop and found her packing plastic flower cups with soil.

"Who?" came Thomas.

"Alice's," Martha said again, almost irritated. "She runs the florist shop I frequent every week for the house arrangements. And I've purchased her flowers for those terrible events you keep having for business," she clarified. "That little red-headed girl out there is her daughter, Ivy."

Martha then said something about Ivy being "soft-spoken" and how she had called the police on Alice's husband, Mario. Which was true because when Bruce saw Ivy, even he could make out the faint bruising along her arm. Alice had cuts, and his mom called the cops. However, Bruce couldn't really hear her much as she continued the conversation because he wasn't paying attention. He was so mesmerized by the child's friend, who he had never even seen before. She was so beautiful and he couldn't think of another way to describe her because it was the truth. Plain and simple. The perfect curls that sat around her face, highlighting the slight pink chill of her cheeks and the piercing green of her eyes that he could admire from so far away. The way her outward appearance was rough and ragged, and her imperfect posture being something he found attractive for a reason he couldn't understand. He liked everything about her.

He watched as one of the boys playing basketball came up behind the girl and swiftly stole the red delicious from her hand, tearing down her grey hood in the process. Her curls exploded from their confinement like wildfire and her face fumed with anger. She yelled something incoherent and pushed the boy who had stolen from her. She reached for his hand and grabbed back what he had taken. Bruce smiled, adored the way she carried herself--as tough on the inside as she was on the outside. Someone real, and honest. Nothing like anyone he had laid eyes on before.

She took a bite of her apple. Closed her eyes around the taste and Bruce could tell even from their distance apart she was savouring it. She opened her eyes and found herself being noticed from the car streets. Bruce could then swear she saw him watching her.

And she didn't turn away or run from his gaze. She seemed to be captured by him too as they locked eyes for a few moments. No one was watching them now. His mother and father were flirting and Alfred was laughing. The girl in mid-chew with her apple and Bruce with his breath caught in his throat. He was nervous and scared, and he wanted to wave to her but unfortunately, the wheels on the car started rolling again. This time traffic didn't stop. And to Bruce's complete shock, the girl hopped up from her milk crate and followed him. Staring at him intently while she pushed through the lot of people. He watched her until she finally gave up, her eyes once filled with bewilderment now fading. Hands fall to her sides in disappointment. He watched her still, for as long as he could until she faded away.

"Dad?" Bruce looked at him from the rear-view. "Can we drive around the block one more time?"

Thomas complied. However, for Bruce, he was left only able to describe the blonde-haired girl as someone who was there one moment and gone the next.


End file.
